Page 64 of Tips and Trysts

My palms are starting to sweat. There’s a lump in my throat, my suit feels itchy, and realization is starting to set in: I fumbled her so fucking badly.

“This isn’t working, is it? I’m so sorry and you have every right—”

I stop in the middle of my sentence.

Cora is standing in the open doorway with her phone on her ear. Her expression is even: neither happy nor upset to see me for the first time in days. She’s so pretty—truly the prettiest person I’ve ever seen, which is saying a lot because my best friend is Lander Dawson, a guy so indescribably pretty that Yale University asked if they could use his image on their website—and Lander didn’t even go to Yale.

She closes the door behind her before she ends the call and slides her phone into the purse on her shoulder.

“You were already here?” I ask, not embarrassed when the question comes out soft and relieved. Already, the mere sight of her has made my chest loosen.

“No, I hopped on my broomstick and beat the traffic on Connecticut Ave.” Cora moves forward and stops in front of me. “I just got here. I wasn’t sure I was going to come.”

“I’m sorry,” I say for the fourth or fifth time tonight, but it’s still not enough. “I’m sorry for lying. I swear I’m never, ever going to lie again.”

And I stare into Cora’s exquisite brown eyes when I sink to my knees at her feet.

My suit cost three thousand dollars. My watch was a gift from my father—easily twenty grand. Everything on me is the best money can buy, and I wear them all while kneeling for Cora.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat before I brace my palms on the gray carpeted floor, bow, and put my lips on the toe of her boot.

I kiss it.

I’m not quick about it. I linger, lips fixed against the scuffed leather toe, ready to lick it if she asks. After half a minute, I slide my lips up, dragging them to her laces. Her shin. Her knee. I kiss them while on all-fours until I feel her hand on my head, stopping me from going any higher.

My gaze meets hers once more, and I say, “I’m so sorry, princess.”

Cora’s eyes bear down on me, pools of dark, unyielding focus until they soften. “You should be,” she answers. Her fingertips press through my hair and touch my scalp, gentle and affectionate. “And I expect you to make it up to me.”

I bob my head, eager. “I will. Anything you want.”

Cora removes her hand from my scalp and snaps her fingers. “Stand.”

When I’m standing, I bow my head and hold her gaze. “I’ll put in the work. Constantly.”

She takes a step closer to me, slides her purse off her arm, and places it on the table next to her. “I would expect nothing less. But for now,” she says before she rests her hand against my side underneath my suit jacket, “I want you to show me my new cock.”

Twenty-One

CORA

Something unique about EverettLogan is how difficult it is to rattle him. He tempers everything.

Other men aren’t like this, I’ve learned. When I say anything filthy, most men act shocked. Raised eyebrows. Abrupt inhales. Little surprised chuckles.

I know it’s because I’m a pretty Asian girl with big eyes, long silky hair, and mesmerizing tits. The media has led men to expect shy giggles, submissive blushing, and all kinds of bullshit that I—an educated, self-employed woman—simply don’t have time to unpack for them. They don’t expect filth. They don’t expect authority.

Everett’s response is different. When I order him to take out “my” new cock, his gaze heats like he’s been waiting for me to make this demand for months. He doesn’t even question it. He gets right down to business and loosens his belt buckle, and my heart starts racing.

“It is yours.” His eyes zero in on my mouth as he unzips his pants and reaches into his boxer briefs. “I’m glad you know it’s yours.”

He takes out his cock.

Everett has given me wondrous tips over the last week, but this is by far the best. He has—by all standards—abeautifulcock.

Like Everett, it’s understatedly elegant. It’s not veiny or ruddy or intimidating in the slightest—although its girth is noteworthy. But there’s this curve up to the head that emphasizes his length, and from the smoothness of its taut skin to the neatly groomed curls at the base, it’s clear to me that he takes pride in it. This cock is well cared for, and I love that. Not all rich boys know how to take care of their things, but Everett clearly does.

His piercing is a prince albert, which means the curved barbell he wears is visible at the tip and on the underside below the head. It suits him—like an element of surprise. I’ve seen countless dick piercings in my line of work, but never on a guy like Everett.

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